Page 8 of Through Darkened Clouds

He heaved a lonely sigh and began to read again, the low, gentle timbre of his voice filling the still room.

Within a few moments, his eyes caught the first subtle movement of her head. Instantly, he stopped to study her, the beating of his heart quickening with burgeoning hope.

He let out a breath of grateful relief as he watched her slowly turn her head from side to side. Her fingers twitched, but her eyes remained closed. He stood up, ready to fetch Dixon.

And then she spoke, unseeing, her voice feebly calling for assurance: “Frederick?”

The name seared through him as if she had thrust a dagger into his heart.

She did not want his comfort but yearned for the love of this other man! This Frederick must be the lover for whom she had given up her stainless reputation.

He staggered to the window, away from her, and leaned on the sill in sudden pain.

“Margaret…oh Margaret! Why could you not have loved me?” the words tore from his lips in whispered agony.

The wound of her rejection freshly opened, he took slow, deliberate breaths to recover himself before turning to swiftly exit the room, at once loath to leave her but eager to leave the atmosphere of torture.

Just as he reached the stairway, he saw Dixon below, lumbering up the steps.

“She is waking!” he called down urgently.

Dixon looked up in surprise, her brow creasing in consternation at the sight of him. Had he been in to see Miss Margaret? But then the news he relayed entered her comprehension, and she quickly gave up all thought of any impropriety to rush to Margaret’s bedside.

Margaret heard a gentle, steady voice. A man’s voice. She floated in and out of consciousness, between the realm of dreams and reality. Frederick was here! She and he, and their parents, were all back in Helstone, reading by the fireplace in the comfortable parlor. She called out to him, too tired to smile, on the verge of slipping back into sleep.

Her eyelids were heavy, but she opened them enough to see a tall, bleary form at the window. She closed her eyes again. She could not move. Her whole body felt heavy. Did someone whisper her name? She peeked through her lashes to see a man stride hastily past her bed. Papa?

No…no. Oh no!

The horrible truth pierced the fevered fog of her mind. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw she was not in Helstone.

Her father was gone. He would never walk through these halls again. The forceful blow of grief made her gasp as tears welled up.

“Miss Margaret!” Dixon called out in blessed relief as she entered the room, hurrying to feel her patient’s forehead. The fever had broken, thank the Lord. “There’s a good girl,” Dixon said, taking one of Margaret’s hands to press comfort in it.

“Papa is gone.” The feeble utterance held a faint hope that it was all a bad dream, half wishing Dixon would confirm it so.

“My poor Miss! It was so sudden. We’d no time to prepare ourselves for it.”

Dixon saw Margaret’s face crumple into sorrow and hurried to say something helpful. “For all his faithful service to the Church, I’m sure the Lord will have mercy on his soul. Bless Master Hale, he only wanted to do good, that’s for certain.”

Margaret nodded, but Dixon’s words only made the tears come more freely as she thought of her father’s gentle goodness. She fervently hoped he would be swept to heaven with her mother, despite his break with the Church. She could not believe otherwise.

Downstairs, Mr. Thornton paced back and forth by the front parlor window, not wanting to leave until he was certain Miss Hale was indeed awake and recovering.

His heart was so consumed with his fresh agony and worry that he did not see that Mr. Bell was lying on the couch behind him.

Mr. Bell raised himself up from his too-brief rest and studied the restless behavior of the man before him. It touched his heart to see how deeply Thornton grieved for his friend, Hale. Clearly, the mill master and the country vicar had formed a genuine affection for one another. He knew that Hale had considered Thornton a friend.

But as he silently watched the dark, brooding profile repeatedly pass the window, he caught the atmosphere of something beyond grief for a dead friend. There was something akin to anger—and a fresh anguish.

Was his concern for Margaret more than friendly? he wondered, intrigued.

“Thornton,” he called out to arrest the master’s movements.

Mr. Thornton spun around, surprised to see another person in this space.

Mr. Bell detected a hint of embarrassment cross his face.